


Creature Of The Night

by Anonymous



Category: Diary of a Wimpy Kid Series - Jeff Kinney
Genre: (its not Like Dat), (no rape/non consensual sex), Body Worship, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Underage - Freeform, mutual pining (kind of), sorry mom, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14191995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Heffley's extended family are staying with them for a week, so Greg has to sleep in Rodrick's bedroom. He's taking full advantage of the situation.





	Creature Of The Night

**Author's Note:**

> *reupload* 
> 
> previously titled: bad boy blues 
> 
> I am sorry I am like this but I can't help it; I love my nut. If you do, too, please kudos/comment!! I'd LOVE to make friends in this fandom. I am also the author of three other works: Bellyache, Milk & Blood, and Dog Teeth. 
> 
> p.s: thanks to the person who left SUCH a lovely comment the first time, i really want to be your friend AHHH

It started with the entire extended family coming over. They arrived at noon with trunks full of suitcases and arms open for hugs that Rodrick didn’t want to reciprocate. He didn’t hate their guts or anything, don’t get him wrong, but he was completely fine with never being in the same room as them again. He had been the unlucky one to answer the ringing doorbell, and that was where he found his grandparents standing, smiling, hands holding onto part of their luggage. “Don’t slouch,” his grandmother had barked out, swatting at his shoulder. He straightened up instantly, frowning. 

“Help your grandfather with the bags, won’t you?” she insisted, and Rodrick did his best not to roll his eyes. He had trudged out to the car, barely acknowledging the small talk his grandfather was mumbling as they emptied the backseat. He knew it was going to be a long week when his mother told him to put the bags in Greg’s room. That could only mean one thing, and he definitely didn’t want to endure it.  Rodrick dealt with his little brother enough without extra, more invasive members of his family interfering. It wasn’t that he disliked Greg; actually, it was the opposite, and he ignored it often. 

Later that night when he slung open his bedroom door and found Greg standing on the top step of the stairs, little blue pajamas cradled in the nook of his elbow, he officially knew that he was fucked. There weren’t a lot of words exchanged, mostly just grunts and annoyed glances. There wasn’t any use in fighting it, they both knew. It was almost standard procedure for extended family. Rodrick left the door open, grumbling as he walked back to his unmade bed and plopped down, his iPod blaring music as it laid tangled in the sheets. “There’s an extra blanket in the closet,” Rodrick said, not looking. 

He did, however, watch Greg out of the corner of his eye as he shut the door and stood by it awkwardly, shuffling in his school clothes. Rodrick could feel him staring, wondering what was okay and what wasn’t after so long of being scorned and kicked out. Greg sat his nightclothes on the dresser, and slowly, painfully, lifted the hem of his shirt up and over his head. It was like he was waiting for his older brother’s head to snap to the side and criticize him for simply existing. But he didn't. He just sat there, pretending to scroll through his phone as Greg’s shirt became a heap of fabric on the floor. 

Rodrick shifted on the bed, angling himself towards his little brother in the most discreet way possible. And if his eyes slid up from his screen to observe the boyish curves of his sibling, Greg didn’t notice. He took in his short stature, his narrow shoulders, and more importantly, every exposed inch of smooth, milky skin. He had fragile collarbones, a bird-boned chest fit with curving ribs, leading down to the baby fat of his small stomach. Greg seemed deep in thought as he shoved down his blue jeans, showing the rounded edges of his hip bones. He hadn’t yet grown out of the softness of childhood. 

There was an effort put towards not watching, or at least that’s what Rodrick would’ve said if he were caught. He was only human. His little brother was almost naked in his bedroom, his entire family busy downstairs with unpacking and catching up. Nobody would notice if he took a peak, or peeled the rest of Greg’s underwear off himself. As quickly as he undressed, he was redressed. Baggy PJs hiding the kiddish pudge of his body from Rodrick’s prying eyes. The younger sibling finally looked up, but all he found was his brother scrolling on his phone, not looking at him at all. Or so he thought. 

Greg didn’t think much of it. He went searching for the blanket supposedly in Rodrick’s closet, and he found it after digging through a bunch of dirty clothes and broken drumsticks. With the dark duvet in hand, he began to make his makeshift bed on the floor beside his brother’s bed. It was nearing summer, so there was no real reason to have cover on top of him, so he laid the blanket down and yanked a pillow off of Rodrick’s bed. It was only ten thirty, but Greg seemed to be very tired for some reason. Maybe the long day of dealing with relatives that spent the entire time crooning at how big he was. 

Rodrick, on the other hand, could only focus on how small he was. Sure, he was only thirteen but he was puny even compared to the other sixth graders. He was petite, delicate almost. He had little hands and feet. Short legs. Short torso. All so small beneath the towering presence of Rodrick, who was tall and broad and long-legged. Frank Heffley, and Greg himself, prayed for the day he hit a growth spurt; but Rodrick? Nah. He didn’t wanna be there to watch that. He liked his little brother as he was: pocket-sized and falling asleep on his bedroom floor, pajama top sliding off his left shoulder.

“Turn the light off,” Greg mumbled, smothering his face into his pillow as he stretched out. 

Rodrick did as he was told. 

The quicker his little brother fell asleep, the better. 

The room was dim, but not entirely dark. Because Rodrick’s bedroom was in the attic, the lamp post outside the house shined through the double windows above his bed. It was a spotlight that gleamed on the only family member Rodrick wanted to see that night, illuminating his small body as he struggled to get comfortable on the floor. It was a long thirty minutes spent scrolling through Twitter and waiting for his little brother to fall asleep, tossing and turning on the hard floor. His iPod was still humming, some illegally downloaded Blink 182 song echoing throughout the somewhat stuffy room. 

It worked to lull Greg off to sleep, his agitated form relaxing onto the thick blanket. He went slack, curling into himself and breathing slow. Rodrick noticed, but didn’t pounce immediately. He needed to wait. He needed control over himself. Thirty more minutes passed, and Greg had only fallen into a deeper sleep, mouth open as he drooled onto the pillow. Fuck control. Rodrick tossed his phone on the end of his bed, quiet and desperate to get out of his skinny jeans. He eased them down his legs, revealing his tattered boxers and the stick n’ poke tattoo of his logo he was hiding from his parents. 

Greg mumbled in his sleep, turning onto his back and stretching out. Just as Rodrick was sliding his bony hand into his underwear, his little brother was yanking his long-sleeved shirt off, leaving him in nothing but his cotton pajama pants, vulnerable. The universe seemed to be on his side right then.

Rodrick’s hand curled around himself and a spike of pleasure bloomed throughout his lower body. It was a slow tug up and down before he licked his own palm and shoved his hand back down. It continued then, painfully cautious as he struggled to breathe evenly. He was looking down at Greg, eyes scanning his face; his thin hair ruffled and splayed against the pillow, his thick eyelashes resting against lightly freckled cheeks, his pink lips wet with drool. The steady rise of his chest was hard to see in the dark, but that only spurred Rodrick on. He got closer, sliding his legs off the bed silently. 

He leaned over himself in the dark, hand still curled around his dick and moving as he took in the painfully arousing sight of his little brother. Helpless, barely audible ‘uh, uh, uhs’ left his mouth as he thought about him. His eyes were bleary, indulging his sick pleasure in the worst way possible: with his unhealthy obsession sleeping on the floor of his bedroom, mouth open, eyes closed. Rodrick couldn’t stop himself from dropping to his knees, the space between Greg and the railings of his bed small but doable, and with his free hand, he reached out. He grazed a warm hand over his brother’s burning skin. 

First, it was his face. Featherlight touches of the pads of his fingers running along his cheekbones, down the slope of his nose, and then to the plush pink of his lips. He barely pressed into his mouth, just enough to feel the spongy texture of his damp tongue against his fingertips. His left hand was still stroking himself, and it wasn’t too much of a surprise. He wasn’t a bad multitasker. Second, it was his throat and chest. He cupped his round jaw, sliding down to fit his hand over his neck; almost like he was going to choke him, but he didn’t. It was a ghost of a touch that kept Greg from waking up. 

Rodrick’s hand engulfed the space between his jaw and collarbones, long and bony and completely able to pin him there like a piece of paper tacked onto a wall. If he was still enough, he could feel the pulse of his jugular, reminding him just how alive Greg really was. His hand moved, skating over his skinny clavicle and dipping his thumb into the soft divets that they made. He slid down, resting his palm over his dozing heart. And there it was again, the subtle remembrance of his ambitious brother who would never want him while he was awake. Rodrick didn’t care, not really. It was fine, here in the dark. 

He dragged his pointer finger across his ribs in the way someone would caress the strings of a guitar, listening to every chord in a single swipe downwards. Greg’s body was so malleable, like Rodrick could dig his short nails into the center of his chest and pull him open like he was a character in a claymation movie. He would find a soft, wet heart, lungs, and intestines; he yearned to dig into him, pull him apart like they did those skeletons in anatomy class and study every vein, every curve, every sopping edge of his internal workings. Rorick couldn’t help but gasp at the thought, hand stuttering over his skin. 

Third, it was his stomach. It was flat below his sternum, but the farther down you went, the more baby fat appeared. Rodrick drew stars on his breastbone, trailing a finger down to his belly button, shuddering at the gooey warmth of his small, soft belly. He shouldn’t have, but he curled his fingers around it and squeezed lightly, palming the excess with the edges of his digits. God, it was so sweet the way it filled his hand, just enough to grab and hold like it belonged to him. Greg made a sudden noise, and Rodrick’s eyes shot up to his face, scanning frantically. He found him asleep, smacking his lips. 

The rush of thinking he had gotten caught only made the fire in his own stomach burn hotter. He fisted himself quicker, breathing heavy and blinking away the blur that was clouding his vision. Even when Greg was mouthing off and annoying the hell out of him, Rodrick still wanted him. It was sick. There were so many times that they had gotten into fights, yelling and even throwing things when their parents weren’t home, and the intensity of it had made him rock hard. It was wrong, but fuck, it felt good. It made him weak in the knees, pleasure planting and growing like a particularly nasty weed.

Greg moved again, and Rodrick worried he was waking up, so he quickly got back into his own bed. His fingers were burning from the touches, already missing the satin of his bare skin. A whispered string of words left his little brother’s mouth, then he was turning on his stomach, rubbing his face into the pillow. It was weird. Rodrick wondered if he was having a stroke or something boner-killing like that, but no, it seemed… like something else. Greg suddenly whimpered, hands clenching in his sleep as his hips jerked upwards and only found the floor for friction. Rodrick watched him curiously. 

He almost woke him up then, a glimpse of worry showing through the lust he felt. But before he could pull his boxers up, Greg was gasping out, “Rodrick,” like he was in pain, squirming and rubbing against the blanket. Rodrick couldn’t help the rush of blood that went directly to his own dick. He felt like he could’ve come just from the abrupt, broken sound of his name. It was something he thought he’d never hear, not even in his wildest fantasies. And there it was, being called out into the night air in the middle of a nightmare. Or  _ not _ nightmare. He couldn’t really tell, but he was riding high on it. 

“Rodrick…” his little brother whined again, his labored breathing hot and heavy in the pillow. Greg was suddenly shoving his hand underneath the weight of his body, still asleep as he grinded into it. Rodrick’s heart was pounding in his ears, his dick throbbing in his hand, his mouth agape in confusion and lust. Was Greg having a wet dream ...about him? He could only watch, listening to the shuffle of fabric and his brother’s strained moans. Greg was basically humping his own hand, groaning into his pillow as he slept and Rodrick had no fucking idea what to do but watch in awe as it happened. 

He spit into his hand, sliding it over himself and fucking into it slowly as he watched the scene unravel. He desperately wanted to know what Greg was dreaming about. Rodrick could come up with a million delicious scenarios, ranging from fucking him senseless and slicing him into pieces. What would Greg want? Probably something frantic and short-lived. A handjob underneath the table. 

“M-Mom will f-find out, Ro- oh, oh…” Greg whispered into the pillow, his voice trailing off into a moan, restless as he moved. It was giving Rodrick the most pornographic viewing experience he’d ever had. He was stroking himself faster, in time with the frantic jerk of Greg’s little hips into his own hand. “Please,” Greg cried, the fingers of his left hand digging into the blanket as his dreams were projected. Rodrick was on edge, his normally hooded eyes wide, watchful and taking in every move of his hips. 

His orgasm was creeping up on him, and he couldn’t find the line between real and fake. “Come on, Greggy. You know you want it. You want, hah, your big brother’s cock,” Rodrick slurred, and the very moment Greg’s hips stilled, a violent gasp ripped from his wet lips, he came. With his hand wrapped tightly around himself, his climax hit him like a brick to the fucking face. He growled low in the back of his throat, unprepared for the intensity of it. It bloomed in his gut, slithering throughout his body and robbing him of air, leaving him shaking with aftershocks like he was electrified to the very core. Remarkably, Greg hadn’t woken up in the slightest; he was still asleep, panting, coming down from it. 

If Rodrick were a different person, he would’ve stayed awake and pondered his decisions. But he was simply himself, and that meant he yanked his boxers up and passed out face down on his bed.

//

“Do you want some more eggs, Greg?” Susan Heffley asked genially, and when he nodded, she scooped a hearty spoonful on his plate. He was drowsy looking, seeing as it was only 7 AM, but the entire family had woken up early, preparing breakfast and talking over coffee. Rodrick was up, too, on the opposite end of the table as Greg with multiple family members sitting in the chairs around the table between them. Rodrick was looking directly at Greg without any shame. They would never guess what he was thinking about, and he could tell it was making Greg uncomfortable. He squirmed underneath his gaze, and it thrilled Rodrick deeply. “How about you, Rodrick? Do you want any more eggs?”

“If I can’t have the whole pan, I don’t want any,” he said, stabbing at the bacon on his plate with a fork. 

Susan laughed, “Well, honey, you know we have guests. You can’t have them all.” 

He rolled his eyes, and the morning continued on without fail. Susan sat down next to Greg, her own plate full of syrup-drenched french toast with a cup of well-creamed coffee on the side. “Did you sleep well in Rodrick’s room? I know it’s difficult sharing, especially at your age, but you’re being nice to the rest of your family. Helping everyone out is a good thing,” she said, sipping at her coffee.  

Rodrick ignored whatever pep talk, faux motivational bullshit she was spewing, and simply focused on the first part of her question. “Yeah, Greggy, did you sleep well in my room?” he asked, feigning  innocence while biting into a piece of a toast with his eyebrows raised in question.

Greg’s eyes widened slightly, and Rodrick watched his cheeks go red. “Yeah, uh, I did.”

“Where did you sleep?” Frank asked, reaching for the syrup. 

Greg shrugged, “On his floor.” 

Susan gasped, “Rodrick, you made him sleep on the floor? Your bed is big enough for you both.” 

Greg started to protest, but Rodrick grinned lazily and said, “You know what, mom? You’re right.” 

“I’m fine on the floor,” Greg insisted, shaking his head in disagreement. 

Susan tutted, carding her fingers through the tuffs of his brown hair. “It’s better to sleep in a bed.”

“Yeah, Greggy, I don’t bite,” Rodrick said, smiling devilishly from across the table. 

And yeah, maybe that was a lie but… the object of his affection sat in his pajamas at the end of the table, eyes droopy with sleep, a small trail of drool dried on his face, and he wanted to ruin him. He could take a little biting, couldn’t he? 


End file.
